The Eagle
by Tynesider
Summary: Flying can be tough for young dragons. OneShot.


_He clasps the crag with crooked hands;_

His claws clattered against the rock and gripped, allowing his wings to fall back to his sides and silence the screams of pain coming from his muscles. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and panted his breath back. He was exhausted already. Pathetic.

In the distance he could see one of the trains merrily chugging along, carrying a cargo decorated with flashing targets. Beneath him an arch crackled as wispy circles of magic crawled up its stone pillars, meeting in the middle before disappearing. Disappear. The word grated him. That's what would happen to him in the eyes of the Elders if he didn't work harder. He could sense their judgemental glares even though they were mere dots on the horizon, and he was hardly going to vanquish them while having a breather.

_Close to the sun in lonely lands,_

_Ring'd with the azure world, he stands._

"Spyro!" he heard a voice shout, a voice he recognised as that of an Elder. He ignored it. He would not let himself get distracted. All he needed was a breath of air and a chance to steady himself. Up in the air he had felt his head spin a little, and he just needed a quick break. He blinked a few times and looked to the sea as a means of finding calm. This was a weird place – sea, sea, sea, then a spattering of land with an obstacle course built on it. There was no settlement around here, just sea, sky and stumbling blocks. This place was deserted most days and it didn't take a genius to understand why.

"Spyro!" another voice shouted, drawing his eyes back to the platoon in the distance. "Are you giving up?"

Fire ignited in his chest at those words.

"Never," he whispered, anger stoking his muscles enough to bring them back to life. With grit in his eyes, he took off again.

_The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;_

_He watches from his mountain walls,_

He couldn't disguise his fatigue. His wings were flapping in the same way a dragon with clipped wings flapped his. The muscles in his back were roaring, lactic acid burning away his strength, but he flew on. He swooped down on an arch, his pain temporarily relieved as the sound of it disintegrating filled his ears, but quickly returning as he climbed higher. He beat his wings harder, willing his tired body to stay in the air, but the added effort sent his head spinning again. He shut his eyes to fight the whirls, but the dizziness crossed the border without trouble. He whimpered slightly, despair and disgust filling his throat. He was no quitter by any means, but this wasn't something he could shrug off. As much as he didn't want to it was time to call it quits.

Unable to flap his wings any longer he shakily glided back to the rocky outcrop where he had perched to rest. Disgust seared his throat, amplified by his amateurish landing with trembling limbs. He bowed his head, unable to look at the distant shapes of the Elders.

"Spyro!" he heard them shout again, "Are you giving up now?"

He didn't answer. The spinning in his head was stronger now and it had taken his voice away. He strengthened his grip on the ledge and looked down to the sea, watching the waves whirl in his unsteady gaze. He was feeling ill, very ill; he wanted to vomit.

"Spyro! Are you okay?"

He barely heard the call, his brain too cloudy to register information properly. His eyes were flickering and his grip on the outcrop was slackening. Even in his numb mind he realised that this wasn't good.

"Wha..." he panted, fatigue mangling the word. He could feel his limbs begin to tremor, and as they shook his whole body began to tip forward.

"Spyro!"

He didn't hear the final shout. His head was elsewhere, desperately fighting to keep him perched in a safe place. He tried gripping with his claws again, but his muscles did not respond. His mind and body were not one anymore, and a house divided had to collapse.

Spyro felt his forearms buckle, and with his weight shifted to his front he began to slide down the rock. The last things he registered before his eyes closed were the screams of the Elders and the blue of the ocean below.

_And like a thunderbolt he falls._

* * *

**In most cases I hate poetry, but I do have a soft spot for Tennyson's **_The Eagle_**. I've never really liked poetry or poets in general, and while there is much junk in that genre (I've taken enough English exams to know this) there are a few pieces that I'm fond of.**

**Anyway, this is a Spyro story built around a poem. I quite like it - it's more artistic than the stuff I usually write.**


End file.
